


Unlucky

by dylovan



Category: The Who
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-23
Updated: 2015-08-26
Packaged: 2018-03-14 16:52:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3418298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dylovan/pseuds/dylovan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In 2015 25-year-old guitarist Pete Townshend searches for love, and maybe a bassist.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Sigh. Pete Townshend should've known better than to try and find true love on a dating website. 

He stared across the table in the dimly lit pub at his companion. When Pete had seen this guy's profile picture he'd thought him to be cute. Which, well...wasn't entirely inaccurate. He was cute in the way that a kitten that's just knocked over your cup of tea is cute. That wasn't Pete's bag. 

The man—what was his name again?...oh, right, Daniel Cameron—was perched awkwardly on the edge of his seat. He fiddled with the straw in his sugary pink drink and jiggled his leg anxiously. He picked a fry off Pete's plate and chewed it loudly with his mouth open. This annoyed Pete to no end. 

Pete had a flashback to yesterday afternoon. It was Saturday, and Pete was with a couple of his mates getting together to watch the football match at Pete's house. Keith, one of his friends, had been peeking over his shoulder while Pete was scrolling through people's dating profiles on his phone. Keith had snickered. "Townshend, what're ya doing? This is a new low, even for you."

"Shut up," Pete murmured defensively, shoving the phone deep into his jeans pocket. 

"Seriously," Keith said. "I've seen you with at least five girls—and guys—this week alone. What's going on? I'm all for free love, but what if you like catch something?"

"I don't know," Pete said miserably. "Well, I..." He decided to be completely honest. Keith was rather weird, but so was Pete, and Keith was one of his closest friends. "I can't find a connection with anyone."

Keith cocked his head, his bushy eyebrows pulled close together and brown eyes looking askance at Pete. "What d'you mean?"

"Erm...true love," said Pete. He turned pink as Keith laughed. "I'm being serious! I need a certain special something before I can date anyone. And no one I meet clicks with me." Pete got up and sighed. He started off to the kitchen to grab another beer. "I guess I'm just, well, unlucky."

Keith followed him. "You're picky, that's what you are. C'mon, you're tall, slim, got dazzling blue eyes." Keith was jesting, but there was a note of something like envy in the plummy, exaggerated tone of his voice. "You could have any one of the people I've seen you with. What are you looking for?"

"I'm not tall and slim, I'm just gangly. And my nose is too big."

"It's a nice nose," said Keith. 

"It's not...and I don't want my pick of those people, Keith!" Pete's voice was strained. The cutlery drawer clanked as he yanked it open and retrieved the bottle opener. "They're all boring! I need someone like me. Someone weird and creative and thought-provoking. Someone more than a fuckbuddy! Someone I can call a friend!"

Keith looked down. Hesitantly, he said "I'm your friend."

Pete sighed and stared down at Keith, his expression a mixture of gentle chiding and sympathy. "We went over this," he said quietly. "I can't date you."

"Why not?" A small moue passed over Keith's delicate face. "What's wrong with me?"

"Nothing. You're just my friend, it would be weird. Besides, you've got a girlfriend."

"Yeah, but think of how good we'd be together...I like you a lot."

"I like you too." Keith glanced up at the feeling of Pete's skeletal fingers resting comfortingly on his shoulder. "As a brother."

Keith sighed, bit his lip, and resigned himself. Then his face brightened comically. "Incest?"

"Don't be nasty!"

Keith fell to his knees with a grunt and pleaded, "C'mon, Pete, won't you be the Cersei Lannister to my Jaime?"

Pete laughed, despite himself. "You watch too much television."

"No such thing...Help me up, would you?"

Pete rolled his eyes. "Ugh, fine." He grabbed Keith's hands and yanked him upright, a little too hard. Keith smacked into Pete, knocking both of their breath away. Keith stared into Pete's deeply hooded shining eyes. 

The door into the kitchen from the backyard slammed open. Both the men whipped to face the intrusion. It was Roger, another of Pete's friends, who had been manning the barbecue. His blond, artificially straightened hair should've been hanging mysteriously over one sky-blue eye, but the wind had ruffled it and it was returning to its natural cheerful and bouncy state. He was wearing a KISS THE COOK apron that belonged to Pete and was far too long for his short frame, and was brandishing a greasy spatula. 

"Somethin' going on?" he asked, his voice deep and brassy. 

"No," said Pete, vehemently shoving Keith away and brushing himself off. 

"I heard yelling," Roger said. 

"Quit pryin', Duchess," Keith said. 

Roger's small hands clenched into fists and he scowled. "I told you to stop calling me that stupid name!"

"Why's that, Duch? You think you're too manly for it? I think the three shelves of hair products in your bathroom would say otherwise."

"You little scrawny twat—"

"Gentlemen, gentlemen," Pete said, smoothly sliding in to interrupt the argument. "Let's not argue about who's scrawny or twat-ish. Let's finish dinner first."

Roger glared at Keith before heading back outside to finish the steaks. Keith bent down and looked in the oven window to see if the vegetables were done.

"I know I'm not great at advice," Keith said quietly. "But I don't think being this picky is going to help you find someone. Nobody's going to be perfect."

"I can't be with someone I don't truly love," Pete said. 

Keith sighed. "You know, you think you've seen the world, but you are a bit naive, dear boy."

Pete shook his head. "I'm just unlucky..."

Back to the present. This Daniel character was licking his greasy fingers suggestively from across the filthy table. Pete didn't think he could spend another second with this guy. 

"...So then she said, 'I never realized how intelligent you were. Will you date me?'" Daniel was saying. "And I was like, 'I don't put out for just anyone, princess. Learn some manners.' And the whole Starbucks line burst into applause. An old woman came up to me and said 'Young man, the world should have more people like you.' Then she gave me 100 dollars—"

Pete "accidentally" knocked his fork off the table. "Whoops," he said. He ducked down under the table and fumbled for the lost piece of cutlery. Daniel kept talking obliviously. 

The underside of the table was shadowed and sticky with gum, fungus, and unidentifiable smelly fluids. It was still a helluva lot better than sitting next to Daniel. Pete saw the fork and crawled over to reach out for it.

Bang!

Pete had hit his head on something. He sat back and clutched his temple, swearing under his breath. 

There was another man under the table. This man was also wincing and holding his head in his hands. He had on a leather jacket and distractingly tight jeans...anyway. The man saw Pete and his grey-blue eyes went wide.

"Who—what—uh—" Pete stammered. 

"Er...sorry," said the man. He had a deep growl of a voice. "Er. I dropped my phone and it went under the table." He held up a phone as if trying to prove a point. "Sorry."

"No! I'm sorry. I just went under here to escape from him." Pete pointed up at Daniel. 

"Oh?" John said. 

"Yeah. Er, he's a bit like a Russian nesting doll."

"Huh?"

"Y'know. Full of himself."

"...Oh, I get it." The other man giggled a bit. It was a giggle, too, squeaky and high-pitched, especially in comparison to his deep voice.

"I think I read that on the internet somewhere."

"Who is this guy, anyway?" said the other man. 

"I was supposed to be on a date with him. I guess dating websites just don't work for me, though." As soon as this came out of Pete's mouth he regretted it. He had to remember that everyone wasn't as queer as he was, or accepting of it. Luckily, the man seemed unfazed.

"Sucks...Still, I guess I should let you get back to that. Nice bumping into you. Literally."

"No! I mean, no. I'd much rather not. He isn't a very good conversational partner."

"I'm not either," said the man. But he stayed. 

"I think you are," Pete said. "I mean, you've got me talking. That can be difficult."

The man sighed and smirked and shifted his position into a more comfortable one with a slight grunt. 

"What are you doing here?" Pete said. 

"Er, prowling," said the man. "Hopefully getting rather drunk. I'm...I'm alone tonight."

"I can come with you if you like," Pete said. 

The man shrugged. His gaze flickered up and landed on Pete. "That might be nice."

There was an unfamiliar rush going through Pete's chest. He wasn't quite sure what it was, since it had been so long since he'd last felt it...Could it be attraction? Was that what this felt like?

It was quite easy for Pete to fall into the trap of getting lost in his own emotions, and he did so now. Christ, he's so perfect, Pete thought. Look at his hair, it looks so soft. D'you think he dyes it that color or—

He was interrupted by the man saying "D'you want to come out from under here?"

"Oh," Pete said breathlessly. "Erm. I suppose so. D'you think he—"he pointed at Daniel above the table—"will care?"

"I don't think he'd even notice. He's still talking to himself."

"I can escape," Pete said, mostly to himself, so that he was surprised when the other man chuckled. 

They both crawled out from under the table, trying to avoid particularly gross bits of the carpet, Pete throwing occasional glances over at the other man. He had very very nice legs, Pete thought. Then he felt weird for thinking that. He tried to push the thought out of his mind. After all, he hadn't come here to run off with some stranger. But he still couldn't stop staring. 

"What's your name?" he said as he pulled himself to his feet. His knees cracked as he stretched his legs out. He was only 25, but it was a nasty reminder that he wasn't as young as he once was. 

John stood up. "I'm John. John Entwistle. Very pleased to meet you. I'd shake your hand but mine appears to have some table gum stuck on it."

Pete wrinkled his nose. "Ew. Oh, I'm Pete."

"Let's scarper before this bloke knows you're missing."

"Sounds like a plan."

They went off to the bar. John had whisky on the rocks, Pete had one beer since he was driving home tonight. 

"So, tell me about yourself, Peeete," John murmured. 

"Well, I'm a session guitarist, which is exhausting and doesn't usually pay terrific money, but I do it anyway just because I like the guitar." He stared down at his unattractively calloused, bony hands. "And I'm very awkward. I think you can see that, though."

"Everyone's awkward."

Pete shrugged and digressed. "So, what do you do?"

"I'm a chartered accountant." John frowned. "See, I can see your eyes glazing over right now. That's how boring it is."

"No, no, I'm not bored," Pete said, shaking his head, making his slightly over-long waves of dark hair bounce. "Keep going."

"Well...it's all so dreadfully boring," John murmured. "I work 9 to 5. I come home to my wife and eat dinner and go to our stone-cold bed and pass out from exhaustion. Then I get up and do it all again in the morning." He blinked and stared off into the middle distance. "I don't know why I'm telling you all this. I just thought that by this time I'd be doing something great with my life. In a rock band, or something. Instead I'm here. And I just want to get out."

Pete sighed. "I don't even know what to say...I'm sorry."

"No, it's okay. I just wish...you know, I'd like to be a session musician. I can play bass. I think I'm pretty good at it. That kind of stuff seems interesting. Not like sitting in front of a computer crunching numbers while Jan in the next cubicle won't stop talking about her cat to anyone who listens, and Barry's spilled coffee all over your tax return paperwork, and the fucking printer's jammed again...Sorry."

"It's alright, John," Pete said. He was rather mesmerized. John had a way of talking so that his voice sounded deadpan and bored, but it made you want to listen even more. The corner of John's mouth was twitched up as if he were about to tell a joke. 

"I won't bore you any more," John said. "One hell of a bloody first impression I've made..."

"I don't mind," Pete said softly. "I like talking about things. I can't stand small talk. Oh, how's the weather, did you see the game last night. Makes me want to puke. It's so hard to hold a real conversation with anyone these days."

"I know! The people at the office all wonder why I don't talk to them. It's because they're so bloody boring, I'd rather gouge my eyes out with a spoon. They all call me 'the quiet one.'" He rolled his eyes. "Well, I'm not quiet, they're all too loud." He downed the remainder of his drink. 

"Hey, did you say you played bass?" Pete said. 

"Yep."

"Well, we were thinking of, er, starting a band," Pete said nervously. 

"Really? Um...I'd love to. When do I start? How does it work?"

"Well, you could bring all your shit 'round tomorrow night and you could practice with us. You have to be like good though. This is pretty serious stuff. 

"Okay...cool, cool." John seemed lost in thought. 

~~~

He couldn't believe it. Someone he'd met through a random stupid accident had just, well, possibly changed his whole life. 

He wondered if the band was any good. Well, it should be, he thought, it's got this guy, apparently a reputable session musician, in it. 

He felt a bit anxious for a second, wondering if he'd be good enough, but he quickly assuaged his fear by downing the rest of Pete's drink. He knew he was pretty good, anyway. He practiced every single night after he took the train home. Bass guitar was his only real friend, his wife long since having shut him out in addition to him not exactly being outgoing and terrific at making friends. 

It was just hard for a bassist to make it on his own. He'd tried the guitar but his huge fingers slurred every note. Drums were out of the question, he could only concentrate on one thing at once. The only place he'd sing was in the shower. Yeah, the bass was his only true love...

He realized that Pete had started talking again, and attuned his ears to his question. 

"...and get this, this fellow comes in practically suffocated in cocaine, making no attempt whatsoever to hide it. Of course he can't play worth shit, probably couldn't in the first place. So I have to cover for his scraggy ass..."

John listened intently to Pete—he was a good listener, he knew that. But he couldn't stop being distracted from the conversation by the beautiful man in front of him. 

Pete was quite tall and slender. Every movement he made seemed to have some kind of compressed energy in it, waiting to be unleashed. The sinews in his slim, pale hands formed high ridges that danced whenever he gestured. His hair looked like it hadn't been cut in a year, and the back of it curled exquisitely against his lovely marble-pale neck. 

He talked a lot, but seemed always to have something to say. It wasn't empty talk. And he seemed to have such a low opinion of himself. Nearly every statement he made was followed by "but I was probably in the wrong, I never know what to do" or "I wasn't actually that good at it, not good at all" or "don't know how they could stand to look at me twice."

It was charming, in a weird way. He couldn't see how beautiful he was. 

Of course, John couldn't tell him any of this. Pete was way out of his league. And John had, well, a bit of a darker streak running through his sexual desires. He didn't want to subject Pete to that. 

"...and that was when we decided to try and start a band," Pete said. "Only thing is, we can never find a good bassist. They're all kids who think it's just an easier version of guitar. They can't keep up with us."

"I think bass guitar is easy to mess around with, but difficult to master," said John. 

"Right," Pete said. "And I'm sure you're very good at it." He absently picked John's hand up, pressing it with his cool fingertips. "Got big hands. Thick fingers." He accidentally made eye contact with John and put his hand back down, hurriedly. John smirked inwardly. 

"I guess I'm fine," John said. "So who else would be in this band, then?"

"Couple friends of mine. The drummer would be my friend Keith, Keith Moon."

"Is that the same Keith Moon who does the radio show Saturdays at 1?"

"Yeah, that's him. D'you listen to it?"

"Yeah, 'course. It's fucking funny. And I like hearing people talk about music."

"It's good, I don't listen to the radio much, though. And then the singer is Roger Harry Daltrey, I've known him forever. Sometimes he works as a roadie for any local band, and I think he fixes cars up and sells them. The extent of his musical expertise is posting blues covers on YouTube. He's a shitty guitarist, but a bloody brilliant singer. He's actually been approached by record producers, but he's turned all the offers down as they all want to screw him over. And no one screws Roger Daltrey. He'll tell you that." Pete's full lips curved into a brash smile. 

"Cool," John murmured. 

"Yeah. The two of them fight like rats in a cage. I hope you're good at getting along with people."

"Well, I'm no diplomat, but people seem to like me. Don't see why."

"So...you in?"

"Yeah," said John. "Why not?"

"Okay, terrific. Here, let me give you my number, text me sometime tomorrow afternoon. We'll probably all be hanging out."

Pete borrowed John's phone and put his number in, then slid it back across the table. John caught a glimpse of the time on the phone's upturned face and winced. 

"Gotta get back home," he said. "Wife'll be wondering where I am. She gets mad at me if I stay out too late."

"That's bullshit. I wouldn't get married. Nothing against it, the institution just isn't for me." 

"Well, I still have to go," John said, a hint of humor in his voice. "Better call a cab, I suppose."

"No, I'll drive you. Here, let's get outside."

When John stood up there was a rush of blood to his head. He stumbled a bit, and realized that he was rather drunk. He'd been drunk before he even got to this pub. 

"Let's get you some fresh air." John felt woozy as Pete rested a hand on his broad shoulder and steered him out the door. 

The air outside was crisp. John followed Pete around the corner, through an alley, toward a parking lot.

God, John said to himself as he watched Pete, he is a cute little thing, isn't he? He couldn't drag his gaze away from Pete's ass in his tight white pants. He was practically drooling over the man. 

"Can't remember where I parked..." Pete said. He paused and stood with his hips cocked, arms crossed across his chest. He bit his lip thoughtfully. 

That was the final straw. John didn't really know what he was doing after that, but there was a rush as he slammed Pete against the brick wall of the dark alley and roughly kissed him. 

Pete's lips were warm and soft and they opened at John's attack. John groped his way down Pete's body. He was more than slim, he was tiny, ribs sticking out, collarbones deep valleys that pooled with shadows, taut skin above his hips stretched tight as a drum. 

John bit Pete's lower lip gently and pulled away. He framed Pete's face in his big warm hands. Pete looked to be in a daze. 

"Er..." went John. 

After an awkward pause, Pete snapped out of it. His hands moved abruptly up John's sides and he returned his kiss with even more pent-up feeling. 

John was excited by the thrill of Pete's lips leaving burning trails of kisses down his jaw and neck. He groaned deeply as Pete sucked on the hollow above his collarbone, sending a jolt of thrilling arousal through his core. 

Without warning, he grabbed Pete's wrists and twisted them up above his head, pinning them there. Pete looked so good, powerless, back arching up from the cool brick wall. With his free hand, John traced Pete's sharp jawline. 

Pete started panting as John bit his neck. John's nose brushed against Pete's jaw as he enjoyed his taste and smell, sweat and something tangy yet clean. 

Pete's chest rose and fell drastically. "Please," he whispered. "Please."

John let out a longing moan and bit down harder. Pete just squirmed, twitching his hips against John's. John bit down even harder and Pete bucked against him and let out a cry. 

He was marking Pete as his own, even tasting his blood, and Pete didn't do anything except beg for more. John didn't think he'd ever seen anything hotter. 

One of Pete's long legs wrapped around John's waist. John stopped to wonder at how flexible Pete was before all thought was obliterated by the feeling of the other man's hot hardness rubbing against his own. John grunted, ripped Pete's shirt open and started leaving bites all down his chest. Pete jackhammered his hips against John and let out high keening moans. 

"John—" he gasped out. "John. Stop."

John let Pete's hands go and looked up at him. 

"Let's get in the car," Pete suggested with a breathless grin. 

They composed themselves and traipsed off across the parking lot. The sun had gone down long ago and they were alone, except for some seagulls. 

"Here she is," Pete said, stopping in front of a car. It was a 1971 Ford Pinto. Someone had given it an utterly tasteless flame paint job. The wheel wells were completely covered in rust and the front bumper was dragging on the ground. 

"Seriously?"

Pete nodded. "I know what you're thinking, but I can't afford anything better. I'm not exactly lucky with financial matters."

"Alright..."

"Let's get in the back."

John smirked and wiggled his eyebrows disconcertingly. Pete rolled his eyes. "Just get in the frickin' car, okay?"

John swung the door open and flopped into the car. The inside smelled like cigarette smoke and nasty air fresheners. John got comfortable. 

Pete came in the other side. He leaned into the front of the car and opened the glovebox. John watched him fumble through maps and passports until he pulled out a cassette tape. John raised his eyebrow. 

"What?" Pete said. "It's vintage. I like it. Plus, this stupid car won't play anything else."

He slid the tape into the player and pressed play. Soft horns and strings echoed through the shitty car. 

"Barry White? Seriously?" John smirked. 

"I'm old fashioned," said Pete. "We're going to do this properly."

John shrugged and leaned back. He watched as Pete continued rifling through the glovebox. He fished out a pack of Marlboros and pulled one out. 

"You don't mind terribly, do you?" Pete said, patting himself down to search his pockets for a zippo. 

John shook his head. He pretended to study his nails while actually looking at Pete. 

The guitarist perched on the end of his seat. He placed the cigarette between his lips and flicked the zippo three times before it lit. The flame threw his face into relief. John stared at his mouth as Pete shoved the lighter back in his pocket and his bony fingers withdrew the cigarette. He looked over at John, smoke curling up from his nostrils. 

"Er..." John went. "Where were we?"

"I believe you had me pushed down, and you were going to fuck me."

The crude words in Pete's high, imperious voice shouldn't have sounded so sexy, but they did.

"Well, let's pick it back up, then," John said with a smile. He was a bit nervous, but he hid it well, just like he hid every other emotion. 

Pete crawled over—yes, he somehow managed to crawl, and sexily, even in the cramped back seat of the Pinto—and paused before John. He stared into John's eyes, removed the cigarette from his mouth and pressed his lips to the other man's. 

When they parted John sighed deeply. His eyes fell closed as Pete nuzzled against his ear, and one of his hands wandered up and massaged the guitarist's thigh. The dark, smoky, lustful atmosphere made him feel like he was suffocating, but in a good way. 

"You look good," Pete whispered in John's ear. 

John was thrown back to the only ever time he'd ever tried anything this before. It had been in high school, at a party that quickly turned boring. He'd gone upstairs with one of his friends, a boy a couple years younger than he was, with the intent of seeing if anything was on TV. One thing had led to another, they were both monumentally drunk, and he'd ended up doing...something. All he remembered was the other boy's big brown eyes staring up at him and that was where his memory cut out. 

What was the boy's name again? It started with a C, or maybe a K. Colton...Kevin...Kenneth...Keith. Yeah, Keith, that was it.

Keith Moon. 

Shit, he realized suddenly. His muscles stiffened involuntarily. 

Pete was tuned in to John enough to notice the disturbance, but not quite enough to actually interpret it correctly. He withdrew and looked up at John, a slight smile playing about his lips. "Nervous?"

John broke out of the gaze. "Yeah, I guess."

"Ever done this before?" Pete traced John's lower lip with his fingers. 

"Not really." John tugged Pete closer to him and traced patterns on his sides. "I'm looking forward to it, though."

"Mm. You nerd." Pete ran his fingers slowly through John's hair. It was soft, and he smelled a bit minty from shampoo or whatever, plus alcohol. It was rather intoxicating. He leaned in and tilted his head to kiss him deeply. 

John moaned and kept tracing his fingers down Pete's sides. Pete was shivering wherever John touched him, which the bassist took as a good sign. He felt Pete sucking gently on his lower lip, and bit back. Pete gasped. John took the opportunity to slip his tongue the rest of the way into Pete's mouth. 

He felt Pete's fingers dancing down his front, gracefully popping his buttons open. Underneath the black leather jacket and black military-style button-down shirt he was wearing a black (surprise) V-neck T-shirt. 

Pete looked him over, his eyes dark with arousal. He drew his fingers down the bassist's chest and let them wander down to his belt. John was muscular and a bit chubby and before this, Pete hadn't thought he'd had a type, but now he knew that he did and it was men who looked like John. 

He stared into John's eyes, panting. He reached forward and swept John's black forelock out of his eyes.

"You look amazing," Pete breathed. 

John averted his eyes. "No, I don't."

"You do. I want to see you with your shirt off." The guitarist pushed his hands up under John's shirt and trailed them over his skin. John felt like he was burning up. 

"Alright..." John leaned forward. Pete started pulling the leather jacket off. "I've been meaning to start a diet but I never get time and I eat when I'm stressed out and my wife doesn't even care—"

Pete shut John up by kissing him. Then he whispered "Shh. Only I can be self-deprecating."

John grumbled. 

Pete pulled off John's button-down and admired John in his T-shirt. John put his arms around Pete, slowly stroking his lower back. Pete arched his back and watched the hard muscles in John's arms move. 

John pulled Pete closer. By now, the guitarist was kneeling with one leg on either side of John, and his upper back against the headrest of the driver's seat. Pete crossed his arms above his head and moaned as John started kissing down Pete's chest and belly. 

John sank his teeth into the skin right below his ribs. Pete cried out. John continued biting him all over, leaving bruises. By the end Pete was nearly sobbing with pleasure. 

"Oh god," Pete moaned. "I want you."

John was so hard he felt like he was going to rip right through his trousers. Wordlessly, he yanked Pete down to straddle him. Pete gasped loudly and ground his hips against John's. 

They both got lost in the haze. Somehow, both of their shirts came off. Pete stubbed his cigarette out carelessly on the windowsill. There were tons of other scars on the windowsill from where he'd done that countless times before. 

Pete's lithe fingers crawled down John's stomach and started undoing his fly. There seemed to be a lot of undressing going on, John thought, and he was on the receiving end more than he'd like to be. 

He slowly let out a breath that he didn't know he'd been holding as Pete wrapped one hand around his cock and gently stroked it. John'd been so hard for what felt like hours and hours...Barry White's deep croon was faint through the sound of his blood rushing through his ears...he was too drunk, and not drunk enough. Pete circled one fingertip around the head of John's cock, rubbing slowly across the slit. The guitarist smiled almost predatorily when the bassist's hips twitched. 

"I want you inside me," Pete said quietly. 

John moaned. "Pete, I can't..."

"You'd like that, wouldn't you?" Pete crawled down and nuzzled against John's member. 

"Fuck...yes. I can't hold on, I can't—"

"Shh," Pete said. "I need you. I know you can please me." 

John groaned as Pete's impossibly soft lips encircled his shaft and his tongue flicked across the tip. Pete's eyes were closed in some kind of special secret pleasure. 

"I need it," John found himself saying, although he knew he was on the verge of coming. "I need to be inside you." His thick fingers tangled in Pete's dark silky hair.

He watched as Pete moaned, his back rising and falling, ribs arched out sharply against his pale almost-glowing skin. "I need you inside me..."

"C'mere." The heightened sensations that had been streaming through his body moments ago left him numb and awash with clumsiness as he grappled with Pete's bony limbs. Pete squirmed a bit under John's hands, enjoying the roughness in a way that made John flush red even to think about it. 

"Glovebox," Pete panted. "Condoms."

"Nghh," John grunted. He stretched across the seats and was poked uncomfortably in the ribcage by a headrest. With some uncomfortable twisting, he got the glovebox open and fumbled around. He found condoms and lube, and something else. 

He randomly noticed that he was nearly hyperventilating as he raised the object to his face. He forced himself to calm down. 

The object was another tape. He removed the Barry White one to a disgruntled murmur from Pete, and slid the new one in. He grinned smarmily as alt-metal drums and guitars rang out. 

*Can you feel it, see it, hear it today?  
If you can't, then it doesn't matter anyway  
You will never understand it 'cos it happens too fast  
And it feels so good, it's like walking on glass*

"Ew, what's that?" Pete moaned. Christ, John thought, even his complaining is sexy. 

John slinked over and ran a calloused palm down the guitarist's fragile sternum. "Faith No More's Greatest Hits," he purred. 

"Fuck. Keith left that in my car."

John ripped the condom open with his crooked teeth, idly rubbing his knee against Pete's inner thigh. He made the necessary preparations. 

"So, you're close friends with this Keith guy?"

Pete shrugged. It seemed like it would be hard to look attractive while shrugging and lying down, but of course Pete could find a way. 

"More than friends, maybe?"

Pete looked uncomfortable. "I don't think of him like that. He's a friend."

"A very very good friend?"

"What are you insinuating?"

John shrugged. His fuse was miles long but sometimes he just had to needle people. It was true, he could be a bit of a dick. 

*It's cryin', bleedin', lying on the floor  
So you lay down on it and you do it some more  
You've got to share it, so you dare it  
Then you bare it and you tear it  
You want it all but you can't have it  
It's in your face but you can't grab it*

"Don't wanna think about him," Pete murmured. "Just you."

John watched Pete squirm as the bassist's thick fingers penetrated him. Pete let out a gasp that was almost a hiccup and nudged his hips toward John's. His hands grasped for purchase on John's broad shoulders and his breath fell heavy on John's lightly muscled chest. 

John thought he was about to explode. His heart was pounding in his chest, lust and guilt flooding his veins to create the strongest arousal he thought he'd ever felt. And he'd never felt like this before, not for any guy, not for any girl. It was...

"Pete," John whispered as he pressed his cock to the guitarist's dripping wet opening and slowly slid in. "Pete, you...you fucking beautiful creature."

He looked down at Pete, whose shaggy hair was cradling his chiseled jawline, whose cock twitched with every movement of the bassist's, whose alabaster chest rose and fell rapidly to match John's. Pete knew he was beautiful and he was using it to the best of his considerable ability. 

"Ummm," Pete moaned. "You feel good. Really good."

"Feel what you do to me." John thrust into the skinny guitarist and bit down on his neck. Pete was so tight. God, John thought, Pete's ass was as close to perfect as he'd ever seen. 

"Fuck," Pete gasped. 

*It's alive, afraid, a lie, a sin  
It's magic, it's tragic, it's a loss, it's a win  
It's dark, it's moist, it's a bitter pain  
It's sad it happened and it's a shame*

John's hips were stuttering into Pete, deeper with every thrust, deeper than either of them knew could be possible. He buried his face in Pete's chest. Something strange came over him, nearly suffocating him, sparks going off inside him. Pete's fingernails ripped down the tender flesh of the bassist's back as he wordlessly begged for more. Pete's name was drawn forcefully out from between John's lips as he was wracked with spasms. 

"You feel so fucking good," Pete said breathlessly, not shutting up even at the brink of orgasm. "Fuck me harder."

John let out a cry. His fingers wound tightly in Pete's hair and he tugged it hard, bringing tears to Pete's darkening blue eyes and a deep moan from inside him. He finally was driven over the edge, releasing his pent-up energy inside the guitarist with a few vicious jerks of his hips against the other man's. His hand wrapped around Pete's cock and finished him off with perfect precision although he couldn't even see straight. 

For a moment, all he could hear was both of their breath deepening and slowing, and all he could feel was Pete around him as his cock went soft, and both their bodies still melded in blissful agony. Time started up again and he opened his eyes and looked down at Pete. 

*You want it all but you can't have it  
It's in your face but you can't grab it  
What is it?*

Oh, Christ, fucking Christ, John thought. What am I doing? I have to get back home. How could I cheat on my wife with some guy I just met? Why's he looking at me like that?...

Sure, John had fooled around on his wife before. He practically never saw her. He wasn't proud of the fact, but it was true. 

He'd never felt like this, though. Usually he spent himself inside whatever unlucky coworker it was this month and rolled over, feeling empty and unsatisfied and anxious. Tonight, however, he waited for the feeling to hit and it didn't come. 

They stared into each other's eyes. Pete's hand trailed up and John relaxed as calloused fingers wandered over his cheekbones. 

"You look really hot," Pete panted, "but you have to get off of me. I can't breathe."

John laughed and rolled off of Pete. He sighed, feeling relaxed as he leaned back against the worn fabric of the seat. He watched as Pete sat up and slinked over, peeled the condom off John's cock and dropped it on the floor, and started licking John's cum up. It was nasty, but it was so hot. John noted with satisfaction that Pete's hips were bruised from John's fingers, and his neck and chest were covered in bites. 

Pete sat up and wrapped himself around John. Their sweat-slick bodies rubbed up together and Pete kisses John all over. 

John played with Pete's hair. "Slut," he said fondly. Pete purred, satisfied. 

"We Care A Lot" started blasting over the speakers. Pete grumbled and turned it down. John watched him, weird affection clouding his thoughts. He didn't think he'd ever want to be anywhere else besides the back of the Pinto. 

Pete looked back at John and gave him a shy smile. Weird, John thought, that he looks so shy after I've just fucked him.

Pete cuddled up to John and sighed. "You know what? I'm lucky."

"Really?"

"Yeah. Lucky that I met you. I never thought I was before, but I'm starting to think differently."

John pressed a sweet kiss to the slender boy's neck. "I like you. And that's saying something, I don't usually like people."

"By the way," Pete said with a smirk, "you're in the band."


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pete grows closer to the Who's new, yet strangely familiar bassist, but their newly blossoming relationship is put on the back burner as Keith becomes convinced that he doesn't fit in with the band any more. Roger just wants everyone to shut the hell up so they can organize some gigs.

Pete woke up with a throbbing and unpleasant hangover. He didn't like being reminded of how old he was getting; just a few years ago he could've drank twice this much and not felt a thing the day after. There was, however, always a hint of masochistic satisfaction about these hangovers. They were lingering reminders of the fun/regretful times he'd had last night. 

Last night...Hey! He had a bassist now! And maybe even a boyfriend. 

Mm. Where was his phone? His fingers crawled over the bedsheets for five minutes before he found it right in front of his face. 

John the bassist still hadn't texted him. A nervous thrill coursed through his veins, a feeling he hadn't really felt since high school, a burst of girlish anxiety. Pete bit his ragged fingernails as he stared down at his phone screen. 

He checked his texts. Roger had sent him one talking about a bar they could play at next week. A few of the words were spelled wrong. He loved Roger, but the man was a bit of a dolt. Keith had texted him at 1:30 AM. Just an _I love you_.

A lot of the time, Keith sent ten times as many texts as Pete sent Keith. Sometimes Keith's texts were just drunken gibberish, stuff like "dhhhhb" or something about cheeky Nando's. The random "I love you" texts always made Pete crack a reluctant smile. He loved that lad, but he always had a nagging feeling he was going to end up bleeding out in a gutter someday, morbid as it seemed. 

He tapped out an "I love you" in reply. He hung around in bed for a while, contemplating the thought of his new lover, John. Eventually the stink of his own breath convinced him to get out of bed. 

He turned on the radio as he brushed his teeth and was shocked by a familiar voice: Keith Moon. Normally Keith DJ'd his radio show on Saturdays and it was a Sunday. Good for him, Pete thought. 

"You just heard 'Under My Thumb' by the Rolling Stones," Keith's fake-upper-crust accent rolled out through the speakers. "Coming up after the break, we have the Kinks covering 'You Really Got Me.' This is your local rock station, 106.3 FM The Relay. We've got the hits." An ad for Heinz Baked Beans started playing. 

Pete took a shower, which took a bit of the bite off his hangover. He drank some coffee and watched TV, not really paying attention to any of it, aching for John to shoot him a text. 

His phone buzzed and he looked down. His heart jumped into his throat, like he'd just gone down the biggest hill on a rollercoaster. It was a new number, and the text said _hey, it's John._

 _Hi,_ Pete texted him back with shaking fingers. He slurped down the rest of his coffee, which served only to fuel his anxiety. 

He waited for John to reply. 

John: _last night was fun ;)_

Pete: _Oh, really? I had fun too. I think._

John: _lmao. you're funny_

Pete: _Thanks, I guess._

John: _so..can I meet you somewhere?_

Pete: _Why don't you just come over to my place with your bass stuff? The other guys should be here soon._

John: _I was hoping we could be alone...nah, kidding. I'll be right over, where's your house?_

Pete sent John his address; John said he'd be over in a bit. Pete ran to the bathroom to excessively groom himself. When he was done vigilantly poking every spot and plucking every errant hair off his face, he went back to the living room with a bit of paper. He put on a record, the one the Beach Boys had released recently, Pet Sounds. On the top of the paper he wrote JOHN—PROS AND CONS. He divided the page into two columns and wrote on the CONS column first. 

His major issue with John was the fact that he was cheating on his wife just by seeing Pete. This was a pretty big red flag. But, Pete thought, John was clearly unhappy in his marriage. Who was he to deny John happiness?...But the CHEATER he'd written in the CONS column stayed. 

He wrote down DRINKS AND SMOKES TOO MUCH. John seemed to have a bit of a death wish, now that he looked at the facts. 

That seemed to be all the cons. He moved on to pros. He scribbled down MYSTERIOUS. John had intrigue. You could see in his face all the secrets he had somewhere deep inside, and Pete wanted to learn every one of those secrets. After that came HOT. There was really no other way to put it. When he looked at John he got weak in the knees. Everything about the strangely attractive man made him blush when he remembered him—his dumb fluffy dyed hair, his chest that was so broad it pulled the buttons on his shirt until they nearly popped off, his ocean-grey eyes and his smile...Pete was enamored with the man. 

After HOT Pete wrote MUSICIAN. He admired musical talent in anyone, not least himself. He couldn't really see any problems that could arise from dating someone in his own band. Then Pete wrote BIG DICK. He circled it and underlined it twice and then inserted the end of the pen into his mouth and sucked on it, lost in thought, pupils dilated. 

"'Ullo," came a husky voice from behind him. He turned around—it was John. Pete blushed and tried to cover the sheet, but John snatched it from his hands and read it with a smirk. 

"How'd you get in here?" Pete said. "Oh, God, I haven't even had time to clean—"

"Door was unlocked, I knocked and you didn't answer," said John. He squinted at the page. "So, this is what you think of me."

"I suppose so." Pete covered his face, cringing. John laughed and gave him the paper back.

"I don't mind," he said. "I like knowing how other people see me. And you seem to have a better opinion than most."

Pete got up and crossed his arms, eyeing John. The bassist had his instrument in a case slung over his back, and he was holding a cheap amp which he set down beside the couch. He was wearing a furry coat, a black dress shirt tucked into very tight black jeans, and a spider necklace. Pete felt underdressed in his T-shirt and ripped jeans. 

"So, Mister Entwistle, does your wife know you're here?" Pete said. He needed to get back on top of the conversation—he didn't like how John made him feel so vulnerable. 

His plan didn't work. John's big hand came to rest constrictively on Pete's slight shoulder. "Rule number one," he said, "we leave my wife out of this."

"Okay," Pete said. "Er. What's rule number two?"

John paused to think. "Rule number two is kiss me whenever I want you to," he said decisively off the top of his head. 

"That sounds more like it."

"So, right now."

Their lips met. Pete's eyes closed instinctively as he caught a hint of John's dark, musky smell. He moaned and leaned his head back as John planted hungry, sloppy kisses all down his neck, making him wince. John finally drew back and gazed into the eyes of his prey. 

"You're a good kisser," Pete said. His head was spinning. 

"I know." John smiled, his slightly pointed teeth driving Pete wild. Pete closed in on John to return his kisses. 

In the middle of their impromptu makeout session, the door opened again. Someone else entered the house, having knocked at the door to no avail for a while. The someone stopped and stared at the spectacle in the living room. 

Pete heard the footsteps and ripped John's tongue out of his mouth. He looked around John's head to see none other than Keith Moon. 

The drummer was in shock. His brown eyes got even wider. His moon-shaped face went pale. "Pete..."

Pete tried to keep John from turning around to see Keith. He didn't want Keith to see him. "Keith!"

John turned around despite Pete clinging to his sleeves. He gasped. "Keith..."

"John!" Keith nearly yelled. 

"Pete..." John said, dread in his voice.

"John," Pete whispered. 

Yet another musician burst into the house. "Roger!" Roger Daltrey said. "Why's everyone yelling names? Who's this man Pete's hugging?"

"I wasn't hugging him!" Pete said. "I was...giving him the Heimlich maneuver. He was choking."

"The only thing he was choking on was your tongue!" Keith said. Speaking of choking, he was struggling to choke back tears. He let out a huffy sob. "Pete, I can't believe you're with this guy!"

"What...Pete, you're a gay?" Roger looked disgusted. 

"I'm bisexual," said Pete, "and don't use that tone with me, and I've held hands with other guys when you were around!"

"I thought maybe you were just really close friends!"

"Pete..." Keith said. He shoved Roger and John out of the way. "Why are you with him?"

Pete shrugged uncomfortably. John said "Oh, c'mon, do we have to make a big deal outta this?"

"Yes, John!" Keith said. He wiped tears out of his eyes. "You broke my heart all those years ago...you told me you'd love me forever, and you left!" He spat on the ground at John's feet. "Pete, don't date this guy. He's not good for you."

"Don't tell me what to do," Pete said coldly. 

"I know what I'm talking about," Keith said tearfully. "Please...even if you won't love me. There are so many guys out there who'll treat you right."

"You're not my mom," Pete said. 

John rolled his eyes. 

"Wait, Keith, you're a gay too?" Roger said. 

"Shut _up_ , Roger! God," Pete said testily.

"I don't wanna talk to any of you!" Keith dramatically rushed into the spare bedroom and slammed the door. 

Roger rolled his eyes. "Probably gonna go and try kill himself again," he said. 

"I feel bad," John said hesitantly. "He's not taking this well."

Roger sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Could someone tell me what's going on?"

"I was with Keith a while ago," John said. "It was never really anything big, but he was terribly attached to me. Now I'm with Pete and I guess he's jealous."

"And Keith may have a teeny crush on me," Pete added. "I guess I should've said something, John. But I didn't know you were with Keith..."

"I didn't know you were," John said. 

"I wasn't! He just likes me!"

"God," John moaned. "More fucking drama, just what I need. Where's the kitchen? I need a drink."

"Me too," Roger said miserably. 

"You're not gonna quit, are you?" Pete said to Roger.

"No," Roger said. "I mean...I don't think so."

In the guest bedroom on the bed, Keith was sobbing his heart out. His fingers clenched the covers. He pressed his face into the pillow and let out an anguished scream, unable to find any other way to communicate his pain. 

It wasn't fair. Keith was one of Pete's best friends. He'd stayed with him though everything, through all the tough breakups and all the loneliness. When he'd finally worked up the courage to tell Pete his secret, and confessed everything, with sweaty palms and awkward fidgeting, he hadn't got the reaction he'd wanted. 

Pete had tilted his head and smiled gently in a way that was almost worse than if he'd gone into a rage. "I thought you might feel that way about me," he'd said. "I'm sorry, I'm gonna have to let you down, Keith. But I'm very flattered."

"Are we still friends?" Keith had said. "You aren't mad, are you?"

"No, it's okay," Pete said. "Honestly."

"Alright," Keith said. But it wasn't alright. "...I love you."

"I love you too, mate."

Keith had tried his very hardest to push that stupid crush back down into his subconscious. He knew that he wasn't being rational—he got little crushes on his friends all the time. He tended to confuse his romantic love with his platonic love, although he really didn't see much of a difference, and he'd give all his mates kisses on the cheeks if he could. But this crush didn't go away. It stayed inside of him, smoldering under his surface to show itself at the worst of times. 

Pete just didn't understand Keith. Every time Pete told Keith about an awful date he'd had last night, Keith wanted to scream. Couldn't Pete see that Keith was perfect for him, that Keith loved him more than anyone else ever could? When Pete texted Keith complaining about a hangover he had after a night out with his other friends, Keith just wanted to get stoned and blackout drunk, wanting to forget about the people Pete was spending more and more time with, even though the booze and weed always messed with Keith's meds. He hated the girls and guys Pete spent time with. He knew that his love for Pete was so much more pure than anything these other people could give. 

Pete saw Keith as nothing more than a close friend, someone he could tell his secrets, but not someone he'd ever love romantically. Keith could scream—they were so close in every way but the way Keith wanted them to be. Sure, Keith had girlfriends, but they were nothing next to Pete. 

Keith hit a lull in his breakdown and lay his head down on the tearstained pillow, trying to calm his breathing.

 _I could hurt him,_ Keith thought. _If I told him I didn't want to be his friend, if I told him I'd made other friends and I didn't need him, I could make him break down and cry._ This thought made Keith's heart skip a beat. He knew he had a manipulative, controlling side, but whenever it showed up he still felt guilty, as he should. 

But he would never do that. He was too invested in Pete. Pete knew all his secrets, and he knew Pete's—the crushes, the complaints about each other's parents, the anxieties and the insecurities. He truly loved Pete. 

Besides, if he told Pete all those hurtful things, would Pete even care? Keith thought he would, but Pete had other friends, and now this...

 _He doesn't need me._ The tears began to flow down Keith's cheeks again, this time silently. 

And now John...Sure, he hadn't seen John in ages. But he'd left a huge imprint on Keith, even though now Keith knew that John had never really meant all those loving things he'd said on that fateful night. He'd never really felt that way about anyone until John. It had been something like a rite of passage, spending the night with him, getting lost in time. Sometimes small things triggered a memory of John, like the smell of someone's cologne, or hearing that song John had liked, and it made Keith feel uncomfortable and queasy. 

Keith couldn't let Pete date John. He didn't want to see Pete date anyone, but John was the worst possible option. But Pete would never believe him. 

Keith felt awful for feeling this jealous. He felt dirty, guilty, and he wished he could somehow change himself. Sometimes when he was around Pete he could barely stop himself from flinging his arms around him and placing kiss after kiss on his plush, well-formed lips. He longed to feel Pete's body heat radiating into him. God, he wanted the guitarist. He just needed to touch him, to explore his fragile body with his fingers and tongue. He didn't even need his affection to be reciprocated. He'd be happy just giving him head and hearing the smooth moans of ecstasy he imagined the man would make. But he couldn't do any of that to Pete. 

The way Pete and John had been kissing was the way Keith had imagined Pete kissing him a thousand times over, but now it was just sick and perverted, and Keith loved Pete so much it was turning into a strange kind of hate...

Of course, even in all this chaos, they still had to rehearse their songs. Eventually Keith got a grip and went back out. For a while things were extremely awkward, which was augmented by the fact that John kept coming up behind Pete and grabbing his butt and whispering "Who's your daddy?"

The weird thing was, this worked. Usually they couldn't find a bassist who'd stay with them for more than a week. The Who argued with each other constantly—something between mates riffing on each other, sibling rivalry, and plain old anger at a world that wouldn't quite accept them, taken out on each other. John was a bit different from the other bassists. He didn't get involved in their little spats much; he just sat in the corner, rolling his eyes, but he exuded a quiet air of massive power. None of them really wanted to test John. 

And he was good, was the thing. The aforementioned quietly massive power was all channeled into his bass playing. Thunder rumbled forth from the cheap amp, complimenting the crashing waves of Keith's drums and the sparks of lightning made by Pete's guitar and Roger's hurricane of a voice. It was something wonderful. They had to keep John. 

Pete, especially, knew he had to keep John. Watching him play bass with that amazingly bored countenance and fingers moving at the speed of sound was incredibly sexy. John knew it, too. The occasional hungry glances over at Pete confirmed this. After a while, though, Pete had to send John a text to stop flirting with him in front of the guys. Keith looked on the verge of tears whenever John's powerful hands pulled Pete in for a light kiss, and Roger just looked plain disgusted. 

After a couple beers, some time passing, and the ban on Towntwistle PDA, Keith managed somehow to shove all the shitty, nervous feelings down inside him. The music helped him return to his normal radio-personality exaggerated self. John and Keith got along well, was the funny thing. Keith was loud, brash, yet charming, and a bit touched in the head. John was subtle and quiet—well, he really wasn't so much quiet as he used his words effectively, economically. John seemed stable and normal and rather accountant-y. 

They shared some weird rapport, however. The same weird sense of humor that Keith forced upon all who knew him shone out, unspoken, in John's gaze. When John's amp was acting up he gritted his teeth with the same rage that Keith used to topple his drum kit. Maybe opposites did attract. Keith's drumming style was erratic, and he'd need a wonderfully steady bassist to complement him, and John played perfectly for him. They joked around while Pete messed with his lyrics and Roger complained about how loud the bass was. 

You almost forgot that they were both vying for ownership of a certain big-nosed guitarist. Maybe that didn't really detract from their being bandmates, though. The last thing the Who did was get along in the first place, anyway. 

Anyways, the time whizzed by. They ordered pizza and wings when it began to get dark out. They all felt wonderfully satisfied in a quasi-post-coital way as they went to veg out in front of the TV and wait for their food to arrive. The Who hadn't played this well in a long bloody time. 

After food, Roger was the first to go back home. He had to turn in early since he had work tomorrow morning, plus which he just wanted to get away from the rampant gayness in Pete's house. He shook hands with John before he departed in his battered sedan, though, which was a huge mark of respect—Roger Daltrey rarely deigned to shake the hands of mere mortals. 

Keith, John, and Pete stayed in Pete's house until well after anything like a reasonable bedtime. Keith fancied himself something like their chaperone. Although he wasn't responsible at all, he wasn't about to willingly leave his best friend and his new bandmate together alone. The atmosphere grew more and more awkward and tense until Pete finally said:

"Keith, it's getting rather late, innit?"

"Oh, I hadn't noticed," Keith said, yawning as, on the telly, the Early Early Show began. Even Keith's irrepressible energy was faltering. Not just because he was tired, but it was pretty boring, sitting around with nothing to do until the moon swung over their zenith and nothing but talk show reruns and infomercials were on TV. 

"You might want to possibly consider beginning to think about maybe going back home," Pete said. 

"Maybe not," Keith said, glaring over at Pete. John had slowly crept over on the couch beside Pete, and had one arm casually flung over Pete's shoulder. 

Pete sighed. "Keith..." Their drummer was a huge elephant in the room right now. 

"I'm fine here," said Keith. 

John rolled his eyes. "Keith, we'll see you later," he said firmly as he got to his feet and ushered Keith out the door. Keith whined and protested the entire time, but John finally bundled him out the door, which he locked before returning to Pete's side. 

Keith stared at the closed door, his heart sinking. John and Pete alone in there...

John stood behind Pete and started rubbing his shoulders. Pete started at first, but quickly grew accustomed to the firm, steady touch. John clicked his tongue disapprovingly. "Your muscles are so knotted," he said. 

"Er, sorry." Pete winced as John's fingertips drove against his tense shoulders. 

"You're under a lot of stress, ain't you," John said. 

Pete shrugged. "I mean...I guess so. I'm just a stressed-out kind of guy." He let out a little groan as John's fingers began working on a particularly sensitive bit of him. 

"Must be hard, makin' it as a session musician."

Pete had heard the exaggerated envy in John's voice, and chuckled. "Yeah. But name me one steady job I coulda made with my art college degree."

"Art college. Should've known," John said. "You're certainly enough of a stuck-up twit."

"Sometimes I hate myself for it," Pete mused. "I'm at the beck and call of whoever I'm working for at the moment, up at all hours of the night, and the pay's barely enough for my mortgage payments. But I wouldn't give it up for the world. If I had a chance to do everything over again, I wouldn't change a thing. I'm doing what I love."

John leaned in, wrapping his arms around Pete's chest, and softly kissed the side of Pete's neck from behind. "How 'bout doing _who_ you love?" he murmured.

Pete looked around and saw John with that little crooked smirk that he loved so much. He replied with a grin and a kiss. "That's smooth," he said. 

"Thank you, my lad," John said. He busied himself running his fingers through Pete's hair.

"Mm, that feels nice..." Pete didn't relax for long, though. "D'you think Keith is okay to drive?"

"He's fine, Pete," John said. He walked around to sit down beside Pete and picked up the remote, fiddled with the TV channels. "You worry too much."

"I know. You pointing it out isn't going to make me stop," said Pete. "Are you sure he's okay? I didn't see how much he drank."

"He only had three drinks this whole night. I was with him the whole time."

"Oh, really?"

"Yeah, he told me he's started this new medication and it makes him feel sick if he drinks a lot, so he was rather restrained."

"He didn't tell me that," Pete murmured. "I swear, he likes you more than he likes me."

"He's a nice chap. Even if he's a bit weird about you."

"Weird?" Pete glanced over at John. "Weird how?"

John finished searching for another TV channel—he'd settled on Robot Chicken reruns. "He's very possessive of you."

"Still?" Pete sighed. 

"You must be blind not to see it, Townshend," John said. 

"I don't know...He's just too bloody volatile or something for me to get that close to. Plus which he's like a brother to me. I don't even know why he likes me."

"Why wouldn't he?" John said, his eyes deep.

Pete shrugged and started to turn away, but John gently touched his shoulder and pulled him back around, looking into his eyes. 

"Well," Pete said quietly, "I'm funny looking. And my nose is too big, and I'm too pretentious and I'm sad all the time—"

"You're just lying to yourself."

Pete shook his head. 

"You're not funny looking, you're...you're beautiful."

"Beautiful." Pete let out a bitter laugh and sighed. "Yeah, right."

"You are. You don't look like, normal, I guess. That's true. You don't look like a movie star or anything—"

"Thanks."

"Peter, let me finish." John said. "You're not *handsome,* but you're *beautiful*. I don't spring for conventionally attractive types. I go for the tall, slim, charismatic ones."

"I'm not charismatic. I'm the opposite of charismatic. CharISN'Tmatic."

"How'm I gonna be able to trust you when you keep lying to me?" John pulled Pete in a bit more, gave him a little smile.

Pete sighed. 

John kissed Pete's nose. "Your nose is beautiful." 

"No—"

"Shush! You've got a lovely profile. You look distinguished." John kissed Pete's mouth, slowly and passionately, trying to get his point across without words. "You look wonderful and I think you're the sexiest man I've ever met."

"John, you're ridiculous." Pete couldn't help but smile. "You're just trying to get me into bed."

"Yes, but that doesn't mean it's not true," John said. "I don't lie." His fingers caressed Pete's neck, running over the sharp lines of the tendons and the deep valley of his collarbone, his thumb sliding over Pete's Adam's apple with just enough pressure to push it down a bit. Pete leaned into the touch, craving more of it. John began leaving burning kisses on Pete's pale neck, biting him hard enough to bruise him. 

"Oh my god, John..." Pete whispered. He leaned back on the couch as John got on top of him, John's hands on his shoulders, John's knees on either side of his legs, pushing him down. John kept biting at Pete's neck, his teeth crushing the sensitive skin, sending tiny shocks of pain right down to the growing heat of arousal in his gut. Pete wound his fingers in John's soft hair. "Harder," he said, "bite me harder, please."

John obliged him, sharp teeth and soft lips clamping down on the taut tendons he'd so recently been gently stroking. Pete keened and involuntarily thrust his hips up to grind against John's body. 

"Remember those rules from earlier?" John said in between bites. 

"Yeah...no talking 'bout your poor wife, kiss you whenever you want."

"I've got more rules, I just decided."

"Mm, yeah?" Pete winced as John's teeth pierced his skin. 

"Rule number three. Don't touch yourself unless I tell you to, or I'll have to punish you."

Pete nodded, breathless. 

"Rule four...this encompasses the rest of the rules, I guess. You do whatever I tell you. You wear what I tell you to, you call me what I want you to call me, you suck my cock when I tell you to. Or you get punished."

"Fffuck," Pete exhaled heavily. 

"How does that sound, love?"

"Amazing," Pete said. His voice was dreamy yet nervous. John broke away from him for a moment and gazed down at his prey. 

"Are you scared, my darling?" John said, half-joking.

"No." Pete ran his hands through his wavy hair. 

"Are you sure?" 

Pete shrugged. 

"I won't hurt you." John kissed Pete, his lips intoxicatingly warm. "Unless you want me to."

"Oh, John..."

"I want you to be comfortable," John said. 

"I am," Pete said breathlessly. "I'm so hard...feel..." He moved John's hand over to cup his erection. 

"Yes, but you're all tense. I want you to relax."

"This is as relaxed as I get," Pete said.

"You heard me tell you what to do. I want you to relax."

"I'll try. Maybe I should have another drink."

"No, I want you to remember everything I do to you," John said, brushing stray strands of hair out of Pete's eyes. He kissed the guitarist one more time, and stuck his hand up inside his shirt to feel his flat belly and his protruding ribs. "You're thin."

"I was always like that," Pete said apologetically. 

John pulled Pete's shirt up to expose his torso and began placing soft kisses on it. Pete blushed a bit—it tickled. John ran his fingers up and down Pete's ribs, making him squirm because he was so ticklish there.

"Does that feel good?" John said. 

"Really good," Pete said. He smiled shyly.

John pulled Pete's shirt off and pulled him in so that Pete's body was pressed impossibly close to his, then continued kissing him and telling him how good he looked. Pete was starting to feel more comfortable, and as John moved to bite down on his chest he felt his desire growing. 

"I want you, John," he said quietly. 

"I want you too. You're so tiny, I can't believe it."

"Sorry, I said I was just always like that—"

"No, it's a good thing," said John. "It's sexy. You look so breakable."

"I'm not breakable!" said Pete.

John's fingers were tightly clutching Pete's thin bicep. He clenched down tightly, showing Pete how skinny he was. Pete muttered in discontent and rolled his eyes. "You don't get it, Pete," John said. "You don't know how bloody good you look, you fragile little thing."

Pete was about to protest, but he guessed that, well, he was rather small next to John. He moaned as he felt the bassist's hard cock pressing against his leg, through the layers of both their trousers. 

"You wanna suck me off?" John whispered. 

Pete closed his eyes. "Yes..." He moved to kneel eagerly in front of John. He unzipped John's trousers and pulled them down a bit, and shuddered in ecstasy as his fingers wrapped around John's cock. "My God, I forgot how bloody huge you are," he said. 

John smiled and toyed with a lock of Pete's hair, but quickly lost his composure as Pete's soft, moist lips closed around the head of his cock. John's hips immediately drove forward; he sucked in air through his teeth, his breaths suddenly shallow. "Fuck, Pete..."

Pete was sloppy and enthusiastic and perfect, and John was barely even drunk but this all felt so wonderful. He clenched a couple locks of Pete's hair in his hands. 

Suddenly, at the worst possible moment, Pete's cellphone buzzed. He immediately glanced over, wanting to see who was texting him this late. 

"No," John said. 

"Huh?" said Pete.

"You heard me." John's voice was deep and rich. "Don't you dare check that text. You come over here and keep sucking on my cock, and maybe if you make me come quick enough I'll let you check it." 

Pete's lips were slightly open, strands of spit and precum mixed dripping down them, his eyes tired and glazed over. He was drawn to John almost magnetically. 

As he took the bassist's thick cock back in his mouth where it belonged, everything started seeming more heightened, more real; the carpet roughly scraping against his knees through his thin jeans, the taste of salt sweat on his tongue, the dark smell of John that he craved the way a recovering alcoholic craves just one drink, and the feeling of him pulling on his hair. He felt like he was barely here, like he'd fly apart in a mess of tiny shards any moment now, a feeling which was exacerbated by John's growling murmurs. 

Pete barely noticed as John came in his mouth. Pete was tired, very well-worn, in a daze. Just like John had hoped. John pulled Pete up into his arms and kissed him deeply, making him wake up and squirm a bit, his thin body pressing gently against John's more forgiving one. 

"That's a good boy," he murmured. 

"I think...John, I think I love you."

"I think I love you too, baby boy."

It was marvellous how, after so long apart, their souls had collided and suddenly clung together like they'd been this way for eternity. Another thing that was marvellous was how John returned Pete's favour; pinning him to the couch, quickly stripping him naked, and sucking him dry until he cried out for John to let him go and to stop lapping at his used-up cock. 

Yeah. Life was full of miracles, it seemed.

They both fell asleep with their bodies tightly wound together like vines clinging to each other. Like they depended on each other, like without John, Pete would simply drift away; like without Pete, John would sink. John flicked the light out while tracing circles on Pete's pale, nearly-hairless skin, then tasting it. Pete's cellphone went unremembered. 

Very far away, a tear-soaked Keith Moon in his bed was clutching his own phone, staring at the light. 

His last text to Pete had simply read, _Pete I miss you._ It looked like Pete didn't reciprocate the feeling. With every passing moment, Keith became more convinced that Pete didn't care at all. 

He snuffled and wiped his eyes, his tears cold against his heated palms. 

I miss you. I miss you so much. I miss your laugh, and your awkwardness, and how you'd talk when you were drunk, all bravado and love and pretending to be something you weren't. I miss how we used to talk all night, before I got all jealous and tainted everything, before you decided that maybe you weren't so unlucky, before you made new friends and changed and grew and ruined it completely. 

I miss something that didn't exist.


End file.
